Old stable now just a memory

Many years ago, we lived on Little Balboa Island facing what is now

Irvine Terrace. In those days, instead of houses lining the bluff,

horses were silhouetted there, residents of a stable that was run by

an Englishman by the name of Lionel Harris.

Not being in the least interested in horses, I managed to live

without noticing them for several years. Not so my daughter.

One morning, my wife looked out in the enclosed sand pit we called

a yard, only to find 2-year-old Nancy was gone. Katie ran out and

found Nancy in the bay, doing her best to reach the horses, not very

successfully since she couldn’t yet swim. A few more years, and the

stable on the bluff would be my daughter’s home away from home.

If you had asked Central Casting to send you an Englishman, you

couldn’t do any better than Mr. Harris, who had the silver-haired,

hawk-nosed look of the English peerage, although he may have come out

of Limehouse for all I know.

He had quite an establishment there in Corona del Mar -- a number

of barns, a large riding ring and I don’t know how many horses, and

he ran the operation almost single-handed. My daughter was a typical

child who couldn’t pick up as much as a sock at home, but she would

come home chattering excitedly about mucking out stalls or moving hay

bales. Mr. Harris didn’t need to hire stable hands when he had dozens

of horse-crazy girls fighting for the opportunity to move manure

around.

He did have an assistant named Katrina. She was idolized almost as

much as Mr. Harris around our house, an enthusiasm I could more

easily share since she was a very attractive and buxom young woman.

These qualities were lost on my daughter. Katrina had a bullwhip that

she could crack. That was what impressed a little girl.

Every Saturday morning, I drove off the island and to the stables,

dropping my daughter off for her lesson. Riding around and around in

a circle seemed like a stultifying occupation to me, but she was in

heaven, and her excitement was even greater when she graduated to the

Sunday rides.

Every Sunday, Mr. Harris would lead a group of riders on some

cross-country adventure. It’s difficult to picture now in our

built-up community, but at that time, all of what is now Irvine

Terrace was either barns or horse pasture, and on the other side of

Coast Highway, there was nothing but open space -- no Fashion Island,

no Newport Center, no Eastbluff. Nothing but miles of open space.

Alternatively, he could head in the other direction, leading the

riders along the bluff and then down to a flat spit of land called

Shark Island where the horses could go swimming. Some years later,

this spot of sand was dredged and reconfigured into Linda Isle. I

always thought the Irvine Co. made a big mistake when they changed

the name.

Our daughter learned a lot more than riding at the stables. I can

still remember my wife’s horrified expression when Nancy regaled us

one night at the dinner table about watching the vet stick his arm

into a horse’s rectum for some health reason. And then there was the

time she gave a detailed account of a horse being gelded. She also

learned about death, arriving home practically hysterical when her

favorite horse had to be put down for colic.

Eventually, the land that Mr. Harris leased became too valuable

for horses. The bulldozers came in and created Irvine Terrace, which

was the first development around here to really shift the natural

land shape to create more lots with views. Mr. Harris moved his

operation to Fountain Valley where land was cheaper, and I have no

idea where little girls go today to learn to ride -- certainly not in

Newport Beach.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.